Justine
by snitchesgetstitchesbitches
Summary: The tales of the intricate relations between corrupted and corrupter.


**A/N: This is weird and this is my first fic for this fandom, and it's a Carmilla/Hector thingy, no less! I ship them so hard, I just couldn't help myself. Anyway, despite the weirdness I hope you manage to enjoy this one-shot :)?¿**

 **The title is from Justine, or The Misfortunes of Virtue by The Marquis de Sade. I love me some intertextuality.**

* * *

The cries are what force your consciousness to return to the world of the wakeful, slowly but surely. You open your eyes in the dark of your tiny room, blinking away the bright spots in your vision; your ears follow soon, tuned back to the realm outside of dreams as a result of the persistent banging noises on the wall. Disoriented, you stand, doing your best to not produce any noises that might alert your parents, and tiptoe your way out of the room, walking in the darkness. The wooden floor is rough, coarse, uneven, and it tears at the soles of your feet, but you are already used to getting hurt in your house, so you do not mind it as much as you used to since this is definitely a lesser pain.

You don't know it yet, but once you are older, you will regret choosing to investigate the source of the cries.

There are many things you don't know, yet.

You peek inside your parent's room through the slight opening of the door from which the light of a lantern filters out, and you see a sight you will never forget: your mother on her back, her legs spread, your father on top of her, pushing against her slighter body, he is grunting these guttural moans while she cries, burying her deformed face on the sheets. They are both naked. They look like beasts. Whatever they are doing transforms them both into aberrations of themselves, mom is a bundle of suffering and dad is a rabid creature above her. Shaking and nauseous, you step away from the door, your shoulders adhere to the wall behind you as you cover your mouth with your hands to keep the shock from being vocalized, and you think that none of the animals you have seen mating could ever behave as monstrous, as savage as humans do.

* * *

 _You often wonder what it was that she saw in you. Did she know, just from looking at you? Could she smell it? Was it something in the way you stood, shoulders slightly hunched, less tall and proud than the others? Was it your isolation, the clear distance that separated you from everyone else, including your fellow forge-master? Because of your aversion to violence, needless or otherwise? Did you have it written already on you? Was it visible already, was it tangible, like a physical manifestation of your persona?_

 _Or was it the way you immediately cowered, unconsciously, when she started her little game of manipulation?_

* * *

Carmilla is the one who approaches you first.

You don't realize it yet, but you are young and naïve in spite of the mild horrors of your childhood, and the world to you is a synthesis of animalistic interrelations, everything you know relates to the way animals act and interact. In your mind there is no space for thoughts of animals operating with malicious intent out of choice, because animals merely follow the instincts nature bestowed upon them. The only division of character in your mind is that of wild animals and those that have the potential to become pets, like the resurrected dog running circles around your boots.

She is a wild animal- that is the conclusion you reach after a while. She whispers, and croons, and lies, says concepts of betrayal, and praises you constantly, praises you a lot, as if you were some kind of affection starved child. You think, surely, that she doesn't really respect you, her demeanor is merely a farce to get you to do what she wants, her words are not enough to hide the way her claws itch to draw blood when they brush you. But you listen to her anyway, because, perhaps, it's easy to talk to someone that at least is willing to listen to you in turn, that doesn't dismiss you or treats you like a meandering fool (to your face, that is), and actually makes compelling arguments about the direction the war is taking. You listen to her and fail to see the glaze in her eyes at your deferential attitude.

You don't realize the way you are perceived by others, how you could be seen from an outsider's point of view. You have avoided other people's contact for so long you haven't managed to construct a notion of self-awareness; you're observant and attendant but only when it comes to other's affairs. Your own remain a mystery, a blind spot, a weakness you are unaware of. So you don't know that you are unusually beautiful, that men and women have seen you pass and immediately thought of the word 'pretty', silently, in awe of your profile as you walked by; that your lips are full and pouty and perfect for sinking teeth; that the arch of your long neck is elegant and dignified, that your features are soft, that your face is masterfully crafted, that you are all about a straight nose, evenly formed eyebrows, pleasantly shaped eyes of turquoise irises; that your hair falls in lazy waves of muted grey, tender-looking as sheep's wool, and contrasts with the rich, caramel tone of your skin; that Godbrand, paying homage to his reputation, has considered bending you over your working table more than once, before remembering exactly _what_ you are.

You don't know any of that, and therefore, you ignore the many different ways in which someone might want to keep another.

You don't notice either that she is taller than you, if just by an inch. That she asserts dominance by towering is something you recognize later, when it's already too late to save yourself.

When Carmilla visits you, it doesn't register that you are startled, like a small bird on the ground sensing movement nearby. You back away, almost instinctually, and it doesn't upset you that when you speak to her you actually have to crane your head just a little bit to look her straight in her blue eyes. You smile a bit at the gentle manner in which she pets the revived dog, uncaring of the heavy stare she directs almost instantly at you, pupils dragging across wavy strands of hair as her nails drag across fur.

* * *

Carmilla chased you, followed you, stalked you throughout Dracula's castle, leaping from shadows, always hovering at your back. She rested one hand on your shoulder, meant as a reassuring act but her palm on you, you would conclude later, felt pressing and domineering. You didn't know that day that you had been running from her. There had been a dark intent in her, that day, which you had sensed in previous encounters but failed to admit or accept.

Broken and hurt, curled on the ground like a newborn, you are finally able to see the truth. The filthy, rawness of the start of your corruption.

Innocently, you had bought her vision of the war, not because you felt actual kinship from her, or because she saw beyond your humanity, but because her goals seemed clearer and less muddled than Dracula's, who had become an unpredictable and dangerous variant. The culling you agreed to, the torment you did not, and the possibility of getting killed was higher than you would have liked-she was right, to some extent. You were human and Dracula now acted as though he desired all signs of human life to fade entirely from existence. It was only logical to assume you wouldn't make it to the end of the war with your life intact.

Thus, you submitted to her will as she stood closer than necessary, her claws gliding through your hair and your head bowed in shame for reasons you couldn't have explained right then. You felt dirty, an emotion that prevails even in the present.

* * *

You barely know men and you know even less about women, your sole example has been the woman who gave birth to you, practically a stranger that didn't speak much asides from constantly reminding you that she never wanted for you, never wished to have you in her life. Understanding humans through animals is simpler; animals do not play pretenses unless they are hunting for something. Carmilla is not human and she is not hunting for you, and while she might be a wild animal, she is not a threat to you as long as you help her achieve her objectives. Animals seduce to eat, and once they've had their fill, they move on to the next meal. Dracula is her main meal, you're nothing more than the means to the end.

She touches you, her hands lingering sometimes over a pulse point, her nails trailing a vein on your nape, the murmur of fingers twining carefully in your hair. Possessive gestures that you don't pay enough attention to. You presume she will forget about you once the move to Braila is accepted. And ironically, you don't catch yourself slouching, making yourself smaller when she invades your personal space, allowing her to lay hands on you like a pet would an owner. Like a child ignorant of an adult's advances. You don't catch the satisfied glimmer in her icy glare.

* * *

Carmilla asks you to tell her about your childhood. You tell her about animals, and the many pets you've had, the ones you brought back to life and was beaten black and blue for, you tell her that pets are the truer friendships you have ever experienced. Humans and vampires reject you, but your pets, the demons you create with your hammer, never will.

"You are so innocent, Hector," she purrs and somehow you know the adjective isn't a compliment. The hunger in her voice is the opposite of innocence.

She plays with a lock of your hair. You don't think much of it at that time. There's only that strange ominous feeling twisting your guts, the one that sentences you ought to have been more careful with your choices.

This concern proves to be true when her true nature is revealed, and she is shouting at you in the halls, looking tall and very menacing, ready to strike out against you, and you start retreating, stepping backwards for every step she takes forwards. The hatred within her is so encompassing, it leaves you speechless for a brief moment in which all you can do is stare and gape at her burning fury. It's only then that you begin to worry about your decision to support her rebellion, there is a madness in her eyes that far surpasses the tired confusion in Dracula's ones.

When she refers to you as a puppy, you are reminded of what Isaac said about cats. They tend to play with their food. But not out of malice, you'd answered, trusting you would be let go of after you had played your part.

On the bridge to Braila it dawns on you how immensely stupid you were to think Carmilla didn't have further intentions in regards to you, that her actions were lacking in maliciousness. That she would allow you to leave. And then she is right in front of you, uncomfortably close, hand buried in your hair, her expression indecisive for an eternal millisecond, and her pupils drop to your wobbling lips and you don't know whether she is going to kiss you or kill you. The tension eases in your chest when at the exact instant it seems like she will drink the breath from your very lungs, she merely pushes you onto the bridge, prompting you to move towards the city.

You don't know what she wants from you anymore. If she was in need of your forge-master abilities exclusively, there certainly would be no need for the mind games and manipulation. But as you soon find out, with a dog's collar restricting your throat, and her fist pummeling your face into utter and complete obedience, she probably ached to see you like this- subservient, damaged, and diminished-, all along. From the beginning, the drumming pulse in your neck, the bow of your lips, the easiness in which you were disturbed, your wide-eyed idealism, the beautiful red of blood on your skin, the gorgeously submissively manners in which you surrendered to her, unknowingly. _Hector, the foolish human who kills, who chooses the culling of an entire race because he feels too much_. She wanted you from the start, she wanted you because she knew she could use you as she desired, she wanted you because you are weak, she wanted because you were the perfect victim, insecure and alone and inexperienced. That inexperience translated as well as innocence, as pure, white, gentle innocence and she knew with utmost urgency that she had to have you. Taint you. Destroy you and control you and possess you, over and over and over again. Possessive, obsessive, maniatically fixated, she couldn't help being so, and she remains so, even as she hits you, especially as she hits you and enjoys your pained cries with sadistic revel.

This is the mercy you advocated for, the merciful treatment of humans you wished for.

This is the hatred of someone who has spent too much time denying their wants, because they shouldn't, couldn't, didn't need to want. The hatred of finally being granted with the opportunity to indulge in desperate, forbidden cravings.

You are human- a male, useless human, and she wants you, in spite of herself, and the only way she can have you the way she wants is to chain you to her. Make you her pet. Turn you into a slave. Contaminate and eradicate the innocence.

* * *

You are in her bedroom, limbs spread, staring at the ceiling. Every inch of vulnerable flesh is exposed for her to see, the collar she gave you on your final day of freedom has been forsaken in favor of chains that keep your hands tied to the bedposts. Your arms strain with tension; almost all the muscles in your body are painfully contracted. Your neck is bared in a demonstration of submission, and for easy access. She is straddling your lap, one hand braced on your chest-tracing the angry scratches she made earlier, before she decided to have you on a bed- as her hips rotate. You wince at the forced pleasure, the heels of your feet digging into the mattress, and Carmilla's fangs glisten as wetness drips down from the gaps between your lashes.

She is still clothed, her pale nightgown cascades down her figure and effectively covers the union of your bodies; and you feel small, tiny, stuck as the scared kid whose skin she claimed you had never grown out of.

You might be the one inside her, but she is the one fucking you.

It's incredibly painful and pleasurable and you hate yourself for feeling the latter. Your hipbones are purple with oozing bitemarks, due to the rough clash of skin against skin, except that hers is like marble and yours is as malleable as butter in comparison; your wrists are chaffed and bleeding from the friction caused by the chains; and your tears won't stop from overflowing, you're filled to the brim with twisted emotions that need to come out somehow.

"See, my pet?" She mocks you, with those bloody lips, "Nothing but a man-child." The vampire says that, her voice portraying contempt, notwithstanding the excited, little gasps that escape her. Hypocrite. She loves it when you break, she is enamored with the sensibilities you possess in gallons, loves to see you crumble under their pressure. She leans down. Her tongue leaves a trail of poison on your bruised cheekbones as she licks the path of heartbroken tears. At the same time, you feel her moist heat tighten around your cock.

She kisses you, suddenly, a deep-rooted longing in the mouth that crashes violently into yours, and you swallow your sobs, drag them back down, returning her desire out of instinct, because you remember vividly what happened the night she stole every first you had kept locked away from the world, when she forced open the box and took them for herself. She tastes of blood, fear and horror, the sharp fangs sting your bottom lip, making you bleed, and that only serves to excite her further; you go pliant under her hungry figure, relenting, although your hips start thrusting upward to meet hers. Her tongue seeks behind your teeth for the residues of blood, but ceases the searching when she moans loudly. You are not surprised to feel talons taking you by the hair and pulling your head back; your lips separate with an obscene sucking ruckus, a string of saliva joining your red lips.

Carmilla's face is a degenerate mask of sanity as she praises you, digits now lovingly petting your head, her fascination with your silver tresses as omnipresent as ever, "What a good boy, Hector." Her voice is husky due to arousal, thicker, and it's like leather slapping against sore skin, "That's my good boy. My lovely pet. **Mine."**

Before you can even react, her elongated canines are sinking into your neck, in the same area where she bit you yesterday, and you howl, squeezing your eyes shut.

 _Breeding pet,_ she dared to call Lisa Tepes on the bridge to Braila. You should have guessed. No, you should have known. You should have not forgotten that you are fundamentally human, and humans, for all their reasoning, are still animals. Animals can be taken as pets. Ergo, humans are not exempt from becoming pets themselves. You are not free of it, would have never met a different fate. _Breeding and forge-master pet._

The cat and the fish is all you can concentrate on. The feline swiping the fish out of the river, watching it flap awkwardly, struggling, comprehending that it's been separated from its usual environment- and the gleeful delight in those big, slit yes, observing the prey as it suffers.

The goddamn cat and the goddamn fish. Forever.


End file.
